


Lovely Little Houses

by fruity_little_bard



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruity_little_bard/pseuds/fruity_little_bard
Summary: Written 5/13/18 as an assignment for the WR245 course I took at my college. Re-uploaded today.This is a very fictionalized account of my own suicide attempt, in which the main character succeeds in his attempt, and must be in a Purgatory of his own making for as long as he was alive, before being able to move on. Explores themes of grief and guilt, redemption, and being able to forgive yourself and find a way to carry the things that you have said and done.





	Lovely Little Houses

The only time I ever wore a suit was when I died. That’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? My mother never got to take me shopping for a suit that fit just right, maybe brought out the deep brown of my eyes. There would be no girl that insisted my tie match the corsage I would have bought her, slipped onto her wrist. Maybe I would have held her hand just a little bit longer, made sure mom got a picture of us like that; so young and alive. 

At the funeral, I sat next to my mother in the very first pew. When she got up to talk about how I had such promise, what a great writer I would have been, I followed close behind. Her voice shook, and she talked looking down at the coffin. I watched my own face, hated how the mortician had parted my hair and how still I was. “Hey,” I said to the body, “please wake up.”

Nothing happened, just like I knew it wouldn’t. This way no movie. That was really me, dead at sixteen years old. Forever a highschool Sophomore, frozen in time. There would be no girlfriend, no prom date. I would never graduate. I would never get married. I would never wake up. Not anymore. I fell asleep for the last time in March, so scared because I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Everything was so heavy. 

Empty pill bottles had watched me, impassive in their pastel orange. I thought I was ready to die then, swallowing all those milligrams. But when I went to stand up from the desk chair, and ended up halfway on my mattress, I wasn’t so sure. Killing yourself is such a deliberate act. And yet, a small part of me was so damn certain I would wake up. After all, the human body doesn’t want to die. Even if I thought that was it, I still felt cheated somehow. Maybe if I hadn’t taken so many pills, emptied every bottle in my messy little bedroom. 

I wanted to die, sixteen years old and so tired of the hurting. I wanted to die, didn’t I? The cause of death certainly seemed to think so. But standing there, unable to do anything as my mother sobbed into the papers she had filled with what my life could have been, I wanted more than anything to be alive. Sure, the  _ trying _ to kill myself had been deliberate, but the whole thing with not waking up had been an accident. 

I had no way of telling my mother that, though, that my cry for help backfired. I had no intention of dying before she did. No parent should outlive their child. I wanted her to know how sorry I was, how I would take it all back if I could. 

====

The room goes silent, and I realize my mother has stopped talking. She has gone back to the pew, and a girl with blonde hair makes her silent way to the podium. There are no papers in her shaking hands, and when she looks over at my coffin I realize that the girl is my sister. My darling sister, Liza. Eleven years old, already taller than our mother, and sadness rolls off her in waves. 

Coming to a stop behind the podium, she stares vacantly out at the sea of people, family and friends that I hadn’t bothered keeping in contact with when everything got to be too much. Gripping the old wood sides, Liza takes a deep breath, says quietly, “I’m the one that found my brother.” Tears choke up her voice as she continues, in a near-whisper, “I found Dean.” 

I know this, that Liza found me in the morning after I didn’t get up for breakfast. I know she had to use a screwdriver to get the knob off the door. I’ve seen how she shook my lifeless body, screamed my name over and over before stumbling out of the room to yell for mom. I know what I did to my sister, how I failed to protect her. I wonder if she hates me. If she did, there’s no way that I could blame her at all. I hate me, too. 

Tearing my eyes away from Liza and the terrible way she trembles all over, I look down at the body again.  _ My  _ body. It is so still. My skin looks waxy, devoid of all warmth. No blood runs through my veins. I didn’t want to be buried. The thought of rotting in the ground always terrified me. I never got to tell my mother that. I had no will, no list of who my belongings should go to. I hope Liza keeps my books and CDs. Reaching down, I touch the body’s arm, try to force my ghost-like form back into the flesh. Nothing happens, just like I knew it would. 

The body sits up then, grabs my arm hard enough to bruise. Staring at me with clouded, sightless eyes, it says in a voice that is not mine, “you can go inside, ya know? Nothing bad will happen if you go inside.”

I pull back, but the hand holds on. I can feel the memory of a pulse start to hammer under my skin, and I take a step backwards, wrench my arm out of the grip….and end up on the street outside the house that I died in. 

====

Kyle looks down at me, leaning heavily on the black cane he always has in the mornings. When he cocks his head to the side, the bones in his broken neck grind together horribly. He doesn’t offer to help me up, not out of meanness, but because he just  _ can’t _ this early. His limbs have yet to return to their normal state after the car crash he relives each night. “You had the dream again,” he says, no hint of sympathy in his voice, just stating a fact.

After I get to my feet, I nod, not trusting myself to speak just yet. My mouth tastes like the pills, and I spit onto the ground. It still lingers, though, always does. That taste was one of the things that followed me when I died, just like the constant pain of my organs shutting down, and the four years worth of scars on my left arm. 

“That’s what I hate myself for the most,” I say, wiping a still trembling hand across my mouth. “Liza shouldn’t have had to go through that, finding me.”

Kyle neither agrees or disagrees with me, and that is still somehow worse than if he would just come right out and say what a horrible person I am. God, I killed myself in the room right next to my eleven year old sister and her friend while they slept. It is still so surprising that I didn’t immediately go to Hell for that. It feels like the very least that I would have deserved. But, no, some cosmic entity decided that the joke my sixteen years of life had been still wasn’t over, and I had woken up in fuckin’  _ Purgatory _ . 

====

If I were still alive, I would be 26, with ten years having passed since I tried to cheat death by killing myself. I haven’t aged a day since then, stuck in that stage of perpetual peach fuzz and a body that still feels too long in the arms and the legs. And when I snuffed out the rest of my life, I was prepared to go to Hell. Ready to accept my screaming, and burning fate. 

Instead, what happened was I woke up outside the house I had died in mere hours before, with a very tall and very thin man standing over me, holding out his hand. After he had all but hauled me to my feet, he told me his name was Kyle and he was my Spirit Guide until I completed my stay in Purgatory and it would be decided whether my soul would go to Heaven or Hell. Kyle had light brown hair that was forever starting to gray at the temples, and bright green eyes that betrayed the easy smile he always wore. 

As we walked around the mile loop, passing the homes of the neighbors I never bothered to introduce myself to, Kyle told me what he had done to land himself in Purgatory. His voice was so steady as he described being in a “not too good” cover band with four of his friends, and how at 35 years old, he felt slightly silly trying to be like a rock star. I had nothing to say to that, being unable to even imagine what getting older would be like. 

He talked about how it was his bands third or fourth gig in this little dive bar full of patrons that really liked the song Take it Easy by The Eagles, and all five of them had gotten good and drunk to celebrate. Kyle was supposed to be the designated driver, but what he referred to as “casual alcoholism” got the better of him that night. It was so late when they left, that the last bartender had fallen asleep at one of the booths, curled up on the mint green upholstery. Kyle had left a $20 under the man's empty glass as a thank you, and led the stumbling way to his old beater of a car. The three friends that crawled into the backseat promptly fell asleep, falling all over each other in the process.

Kyle and his lifelong friend, Jerry, listened to the radio turned down low. It was five hours to the duplex they all shared, and Kyle just wanted a hot shower and his own bed. Maybe that’s why he was going as fast as he was. Most likely it was the ridiculous amount of alcohol he had consumed after singing to an equally drunk crowd for hours until his voice cracked. Five years of sobriety down the drain, and the speedometer swiftly climbing. Blurry and burning eyes closed for just a second,  _ just a second _ , and the old Subaru ran full-speed into a concrete wall.

My eyes burned with tears that no longer existed as Kyle rubbed the back of his neck and explained how it felt when all the bones in both legs shattered on impact, and how his three friends were so quiet in the backseat. Part of him wanted to believe it was because they were only sleeping, but he knew better. He told me that, just as he was wondering why his head wouldn’t turn to look at Jerry, a truck smashed right into his door, crumpling the body of the car and the already irreparable one within, slumped in the driver’s seat. 

What Kyle and I had in common was that we were both dead on the scene, but I only had one body to contend with, while the very last thing that Kyle knew before he died was that he had killed his best friends. Jerry had a wife and kid waiting for him two towns over, away from the duplex that Kyle had shared with the others. There was a life for Jerry, and all of that was gone so fast, in a haze of drinking and headlights. 

====

My phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my pocket. Liza’s name flashes on the screen, with the picture from her tenth birthday flashing on the screen. I accept the call, and listen as the automated message for the voicemail tells the caller to leave a message after the beep. “Hey, Dean,” Liza says. Her voice is thick with tears. “I’m 21 now, but you probably already know that. Mom took me out for drinks, and I officially  _ hate _ the taste of alcohol. It is the  _ worst _ .”

Kyle nods appreciatively, and I wish that I could just talk to Liza, instead of her phone calls and text messages only being a one-way thing. She still has my phone, keeps it charged and in her purse at all times. Like if she does that, a small part of me might come back. I want to tell her how sorry I am, and ask if she hates me. I want to make her pancakes in the letters of her name, and would welcome her telling me how terrible my cooking is. Dessert was always more of my thing.

“I love you, Dean,” Liza says, and I realize in dismay that I’ve missed her telling me about her year. The line goes silent, and a text comes through. It’s a picture of Liza and mom, who Liza is taller than now. The phantom sting of tears buzzes at the backs of my eyelids, and I shove the phone back into my pocket.

“Never thought Liza would be older than you, huh?” Kyle asks, but there’s no malice in his voice. It’s just a question, like when he asks me if I’ve had that damn dream again. Still, I suddenly want to hit him. As far as feelings go, that’s definitely one I can do without. Never liked violence, and the only real fight I was ever in was when a 5th grader punched me in the face for following him around on the playground. I was in kindergarten then, and that’s the first time I felt what real fear was like.

“Shut up,” I say, and turn to walk away from the house. Kyle follows me silently, his limping becoming less pronounced until he is able to fit the cane through a belt loop, like one would with the scabbard of a sword. I don’t bother to tell him how ridiculous that looks, because he already knows, and I don’t want to talk to him yet. 

We go down to the river, and I don’t stop walking until I am next deep in the water. The coldness isn’t something I can feel anymore, and the current that would normally sweep me off my feet barely even ripples my clothing. Holding onto my glasses, I duck beneath the surface, hating how even doing that doesn’t get my hair wet. I can no more interact with the elements of Purgatory than I can respond to Liza when she calls and texts me. My existence in this realm, waiting for how long I was alive to move on, is that of an observer. 

Opening my mouth, I try and suck in the dirty, chocolate-milk-colored water. Nothing happens. Nothing ever happens, no matter how many times I try to do this. A hand grips the hood of my jacket then, drags me back to the shore. Glaring up at Kyle from where he has set me on the sand, he says mildly, “can’t kill what’s already dead, Dean-o.”

“Don’t,” I say, getting to my feet, brushing sand that isn’t there off my clothes. Kyle tilts his head, looking at me placidly. “Liza used to call me ‘Dean-o.’”

Kyle nods, glances up at the darkening sky as he begins to snap his fingers. “Why do you do that?” I ask.

Kyle shrugs. “Saw it one on some TV show. This guy could teleport by snapping his fingers.” He chuckles without humor. “Trying to make killing my friends every night easier.”

“How long do you have left?”

“20 years. You’ve only got 6 left, huh?”

I nod, ask “you gonna miss me once I’m gone?”

Kyle smiles, it doesn’t reach his green eyes. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

He snaps his fingers once more, and disappears from the sandy bank of the river. I sit back down on the sand, pull up my hood and lay back. Kyle died four hours before I did, so I’ve got time to myself. Same time every night. Gotta love that fuckin’ consistency, huh?

I close my eyes.

====

The road is cold and sharp under my bare feet. I can’t remember why I left my shoes and socks in my bedroom, but that was at least an hour ago. I wonder why my mother hasn’t called me yet, told me to come home. It’s almost midnight. I have school tomorrow. Anxiety twists into my guts, and I spit onto the side of the road. Scratching deeper furrows into my left arm, I open my eyes and gingerly begin to walk back. 

Liza and our mother are both asleep, and I grab one of mom’s bubble waters before going to my room. Locking the door behind me, I go and slump into my desk chair. This is it. 

I choke down the pills that are, ironically enough, meant to prevent something like this from happening. My throat burns, and then the pastel orange bottles are empty. Eyes unfocused, I stay like that for a few minutes, rocking back and forth silently, and my head hits the desk.

That jars me back into my body, and I struggle to my feet. The room tilts. Knees buckling, I end up halfway on my mattress, find I don’t have the strength to pull myself fully onto the bed. 

When my eyelids become too heavy and my heart slows, I split into two. The me that has been in Purgatory for ten years, reliving my suicide every night, and the me that is dying on a mattress that smells like dried sweat and sour fear. I sit on the ground next to my body, watching the life leave until only an empty husk remains. I didn’t leave a note. Nothing I would have been able to say seemed good enough, no apology able to replace a son and an older brother.

====

Liza pounding on my locked bedroom door brings me back from where I had been silently floating next to my own corpse. She screams for mom, her footsteps leaving and then coming pounding back. Seconds later, the  _ thunk _ of the doorknob as it falls onto the floor. 

And then I watch Liza, 11 years old, hair sticking up all over and wearing one of my shirts, drop to her knees by the body.  _ My _ body. Her thin arms shake me back and forth, like she can somehow force the life back into my husk by the strength of her sadness and love alone. Like I haven’t already been dead for ten hours. Liza screams for mom again, and tears start to fall from her pretty blue eyes. 

Just like every night, I try in vain to force my way back into that body, pretending that this is more than a memory, and that I somehow deserve a happy ending. The scarred skin will not yield for my phantom touch, and I can only watch as mom runs into the room, phone in hand. She sags against the wall, and Liza’s tears drip drop onto my slack, still, face. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. And all I can do is sit there and watch as my sister begs me to open my eyes. Begs me to come back to her. “Please, Dean.  _ Please _ ,” she whispers, and soaks my shirt with her tears. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
